


One of Those Things

by red_crate



Series: Gift Fics [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Cooking, Courtship, Derek is a Failwolf, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: Derek crosses his arms. “I have food.”Stiles snorts. “Food,” he mocks. “Derek you have like seven Hungry Man frozen dinners in your freezer and half a jug of milk in your fridge for the stale cereal in your cabinet.” The look that accompanies his list holds way moregotchathan Derek thinks it deserves.Still, he can feel the tips of his ears turning red as he crosses his arms. “Food,” he insists, adding a glare that is completely ignored.





	One of Those Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maladicta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maladicta/gifts).



> I really hope you like this MissMaladicta! Thank you for your bid! <3
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to lavenderlotion for the quick once over and cheerleading!

 

Fresh from a shower, Derek finds himself blinking down at his phone with a sudden feeling of dread bubbling inside. He got a text message fifteen minutes ago, while he must have been getting a change of clothes together. 

_ “Stop leaving your phone on silent! What if we need to get in touch with you, asshole?”  _

Ironically, the words bounce around his head from the same person he has a missed text from. 

_ Be there in 20. Need to talk _ .

The message isn't totally ominous, but Stiles isn't usually shy about addressing anything via text message. Derek drops his phone to the bed after double checking the time and listening for the rumble of the Jeep’s engine. Nothing yet, so he hurriedly pulls on underwear and frets over the sweatpants he'd initially chosen to wear. In the end, he pulls on the jeans he'd worn earlier and tugs on the tank top he'd planned to wear with his sweats in a sort of compromise with himself. Derek takes care of his hair by running his fingers through it and hoping it doesn't look weird or too fluffy as it dries, because he crosses the line at using hair gel after five in the afternoon when he's only planning to stay home. 

By the time he's finished getting presentable, Stiles's jeep is on his street, and Derek is mentally telling himself to chill out...also in Stiles's voice. Derek sighs heavily, suddenly just very frustrated with his own head. He spends the time it takes Stiles to key in the security code and ride the elevator up by doing push ups in hopes of silencing his mind. 

“Uh, okay,” Stiles huffs as he walks into the loft. He watches Derek stand and dust his hands off. “Not how I was expecting to be greeted, but sure, why not. Gotta keep those abs somehow.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow, moving closer to inspect the grocery bags Stiles brought with him. He doesn't bother to address Stiles's incorrect quip, and, instead, takes the bags from him. “Why did you bring food?” He peeks inside one and sees a smaller bag of red bell peppers. 

Stiles's scent turns sharp with insecurity, though he powers through verbally. “Because I've seen the state of your pantry, and, I gotta say, it is some sad stuff.” 

Stiles bumps his hip against Derek's,  scooting him out of the way. Inadvertently, Derek gets a fresh and intimate whiff of Stiles's natural scent, insecurity fading. Derek slides a half foot away to keep himself from leaning in to seek more. 

He crosses his arms. “I have food.” 

Stiles snorts. “ _ Food _ ,” he mocks. “Derek you have like seven Hungry Man frozen dinners in your freezer and half a jug of milk in your fridge for the stale cereal in your cabinet.” The look that accompanies his list holds way more  _ gotcha  _ than Derek thinks it deserves. 

Still, he can feel the tips of his ears turning red as he crosses his arms. “Food,” he insists, adding a glare that is completely ignored. 

He watches Stiles unpack his bags. Hunger spikes in his empty stomach, annoyingly, when he watches Stiles pull a two pack of steaks from the bottom of one bag. He hasn't had steak in a while, and the approaching full moon means his appetite is leaning a little closer towards the bloody side of things. He'd been planning on getting to-go from the nearby diner, but it looks like something else is going to be on the menu tonight. 

“No,” Stiles counters, busy putting away the groceries he brought as if he knows exactly where everything goes. It's a little impressive. He continues, “I'm cooking you food. Because you're my alpha, and I can't stand it any longer that your main source of nutrients comes with microwavable instructions. It's sad, Derek, and you shouldn't live like this.” 

Stiles is obviously being dramatic here, but Derek can't help the way his brain stuttered when Stiles called him  _ his alpha _ . 

Technically, it's true. 

But not in the way Derek would like it to be.

Something must show on Derek's face, because Stiles sighs and turns to fully look at him for the first time since he arrived. Derek's thankful that Stiles is only human and unable to pick up chemo signals via scent. 

“Look,” Stiles wets his lips, a nervous tick that drives Derek crazy sometimes. “If you have some previously unknown phobia or— I don't know— territorial thing about people using your kitchen, then I'll back off.” He pushes his hands into his jean pockets, shoulders bunching up around his ears, and says, “But you need to eat real food, okay?”

That last sentence comes out soft, placating, and it makes Derek's wolf  _ and _ his core instinct whine silently. Derek ignores that to the best of his ability, however, because Stiles smells faintly of deception. Not like he's telling an outright lie, but he's not being completely truthful. 

“I'm not going to turn down a free meal,” he says as he mulls over Stiles's words and scent. He smiles, seeing if that will change anything. Laura always used to tell him he should stop hiding his smile. But after his family's murder, then Laura's, and then...and then...

Well, it's still sometimes hard to accept that the last six months have been the most stable and happiest they've been in years. 

Stiles's eyebrows shoot up when he sees the half smile on Derek's face. But then he's responding with a full fledged one of his own, scent swooping up into something sweeter, warmer. Derek takes a subtle but long breath, enjoying it. 

“Yeah, can't be rude. Do you have a grill, by any chance?” Stiles picks up the packet of stakes and frowns at them. “I should have checked before deciding on steaks. But, werewolf,” he nods at Derek before going back to contemplate the meat, “so steaks, obviously.” 

Derek finds himself smiling for real, amused and fond all at once. “No.” The look of disappointment in Stiles's face is adorable. “I don't.” 

Stiles recovers with a smirk, an idea forming. “Wanna buy one?” 

Scoffing, Derek answers simply, “No.” 

That earns him an over-the-top groan that makes Derek chuckle quietly. Stiles drops the pack to the counter. “You suck. But I guess this can be done on the stove. It just won't have that char.” 

Derek turns so he's leaning against the cabinets, arms still casually crossed over his chest as he watches Stiles move about the kitchen. “You're actually going to cook? Should I call the fire department and give them a warning?” 

The withering look Stiles throws at him is impressive. “Ha fucking ha” He brightens, letting Derek's lack of faith roll right off. “I can cook, bro. I can cook the shit out of stuff.” 

A warmth swirls up inside Derek. It's always simmering below the surface when it comes to Stiles these days, but it feel like he's on the verge of being scalded by it now. Stiles making himself at home in Derek's space like he has every right to expect no objection is, at once, annoying and inspiring. It makes the longing in Derek intensify. 

Stiles rummages through a cabinet until he finds a skillet, then he pulls out a cutting board and a knife. His long fingers are nimble, confident as he washes and then dices up vegetables. He had set the steaks aside after rubbing seasoning on them, and the smell of blood, even if it's old and too cold, adds to the layered hunger Derek feels. 

“You're really going to just stand there and watch, huh?” Stiles comments while he slices up a long loaf of crusty bread from the grocery bakery. He doesn't look up from where he's concentrating, and Derek is pleased by the way his voice wavers. 

It's nice to know he's not the only one feeling a little nervous. Derek doesn't know why this feels as fraught as it does. Clearly, Stiles is feeling some of that though. His scent keeps shifting between contentedly confident and unsure of himself. Derek was raised to be polite about scents, about the tells humans unknowingly broadcast. That doesn't do much to keep him from cataloguing the different chemo signals from Stiles. 

Derek pulls himself up so he's sitting on the last bit of counter that isn't covered with the aftermath of Stiles's quest to make dinner. “Someone should supervise in case you accidentally cut off your hand,” He teases, smiling when Stiles's gaze flits to him and away again. 

“I'm starting to think you don't have faith in me,” Stiles comments as he carefully uses a fork to drop the steaks into the heated skillet. 

“You are a very capable person, but this isn't an area I knew you were talented in.” Derek leans back so his shoulders rest against the upper cabinets. “How long have you been cooking?”

The flush that creeps up the side of Stiles's neck is distracting.

He shrugs and says, “Since basically forever? My mom started teaching me stuff before she got sick. Then she got sick, and I started doing some more cooking to help out.” He swallows. “When she died, my dad went through a pretty rough patch.” 

Stiles leaves it at that, but Derek can easily fill in the blanks. He knows how his own life turned upside down in the wake of personal loss. 

“So what's your favorite thing to make?” Derek asks as Stiles tosses the vegetables into the pan beside the steaks. 

Stiles smiles down at the stove. Sweat has popped up along his hairline from the heat of the oven and cooktop. His skin shines. “I don't think I have a favorite.” He chuckles. “But I like noodle dishes. They're easy and filling.” 

“Why steak then?” Derek asks, throat constricted for no discernable reason. Steak isn't fancy, exactly, but it isn't a meal he has seen or heard of Stiles preferring on a regular basis. Derek's heart is beating quickly, an echo of Stiles's own swift heart. 

Stiles turns the steaks over slowly, avoiding splatter, and moves the vegetables so they can cook on all sides. Derek watches him take a deep breath before saying, “I thought you would be more receptive to steak.” 

That has Derek raising an eyebrow. “Receptive to what?” Suddenly, he's on the defensive, waiting to hear whatever it is that has Stiles thinking he needs to be buttered up. 

Stiles turns away from Derek and hides behind the task of rinsing off the things he used while prepping dinner. “How do you like your steak cooked?” 

Derek sighs quietly and lets Stiles redirect. He can smell the uncertainty rolling off Stiles and is thankful that there is no deceit laced through the bright scent. “Medium rare is fine.” He looks over at the skillet and says, “It's been long enough.” 

Finished avoiding him for the moment, Stiles wipes his wet hands off on the front of his jeans instead of the towel by his elbow. “Can you smell that?” 

“Yeah. It's getting close to medium. How do you like your steak?” Derek moves so he can twist enough to open the dish cabinet. He hands over two clean plates. 

Stiles is pink in the cheeks, though it's difficult to tell if that is from more than the heat in the kitchen. The fleeting touch of their fingertips brushing against one another lingers with Derek. His own face and chest feel warm, and he thinks he'll need to turn the A/C back on for a little bit. He'd shut it off for the approaching winter two weeks ago. 

Stiles plucks up the larger of the two steaks and places it on one plate. “Medium well. I don't want it to  _ moo _ at me,” He smiles. “Mind telling me? I usually just cut into the meat to check the doneness.” Stiles scoops out the veggies and divides them between their dishes before sticking the bread into the preheated oven to toast. 

They don't talk much until Stiles's steak is sufficiently cooked and the bread comes out. Derek slides off the counter and worries about his table, which is half covered in books and junk mail. While he tidies up, Stiles finds Derek's silverware. He fills two wine glasses with tap water for them, because Derek only has half a bottle of orange juice and a half gallon of milk in the fridge. 

When they're seated next to each other—  Derek on the end and Stiles sitting at the long side of the table— Derek finds himself wishing he had pulled Stiles's chair out for him. He doesn't want to make this weird though, especially when Stiles obviously has an agenda. 

He works his way through the steak and vegetables, savoring the slight heat of the spices Stiles used to flavor the meat. It's cooked perfectly and practically melts in his mouth. 

“This is really good, Stiles,” Derek praises, cutting into his steak and watching bright red blood seeping along the white glass of the plate. The oil from the peppers, mushrooms, and onions mixes with the blood in a pool of swirls. Derek sops it up with a small pinch of his bread. 

Stiles has barely eaten any of his food, but he grins at Derek's words. His empty fork twirls between thumb and forefinger. “Thanks.” He holds Derek's gaze longer than necessary, not that Derek breaks the connection on his own. Glancing away and snatching up his glass of water, Stiles gulps down the entirety of its contents. When he's finished, he says, “Good.” 

The whole situation makes Derek laugh. He feel like he's fallen through Alice's rabbit hole where nothing is quite the way he expects. Derek sits back in his chair and chews through his mouthful of food, considering. 

As soon as his tongue is free, he decides he can't wait any longer. “You said you wanted to talk?” He prompts, carefully listening to the way Stiles's heart speeds. 

“Y-yeah,” he stutters. “I wanted to...” Stiles seems unsure of how to word whatever it is he needs to say. The anticipation makes Derek sit forward and set his fork down. “You really liked dinner?” 

Derek can't help the snort that he makes, regretting it immediately. “Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. “Yes, I liked the dinner. It was very nice.” He looks down at his plate and the very little that is left there now. Looking back at Stiles, he confesses, “No one has ever cooked for me like that.”

Lips slipping between his teeth briefly, Stiles breathes quickly. “That's so stupid.” The words rush out, and Derek feels fondness swell up in him all over again. “I'm really, really glad you liked it.” 

Derek waits for Stiles to continue, but all that happens is they stare at each other. He ducks his head and feels a little apologetic for the quick bark of laughter that bursts from his chest. Shaking his head, he says, “Stiles. Whatever it is you came here to talk about, just spit it out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees with a groan. “Okay.” 

The sudden scrape of chair legs against the wood floor surprises Derek as Stiles pushes away from the table. He watches him stand, Stiles's fingers trailing unconsciously over the foot of his empty wine glass. 

“I cooked for you,” he states, rolling his eyes a little. “Fuck,” Stiles interrupts himself. “Derek.” 

It clicks for Derek suddenly, and his heart skips a beat. His while chest seizes, and it hurts unlike he would have ever expected. Just as quickly as it happens, his heart doubles back and beats harder than usual. Blinking, Derek watches Stiles fumble for his words. He stares up at his pack mate in disbelief. 

“Are you courting me?” He asks bluntly. Derek stands up quickly at way Stiles face freezes. 

Stiles's fingers clutch around the stem of his glass, shifting it over a half inch. He can't meet Derek's eyes as he concentrates on spreading the condensation around. Slowly, he nods his head. “I'm trying.” Stiles's chin tilts so he can peek up at Derek from beneath his lashes. 

It's the rueful smirk he gives that brings reality slamming back. Derek grins, all teeth and unconscious, at Stiles. He reaches out and traces a finger along the curve of Stiles's jaw, wanting to touch so much more and never stop. 

“Okay.” 

Stiles's eyes close and his smile stretches into happiness as he closes his own hand around Derek's wrist. Derek can feel the deep breath Stiles takes. 

“Okay?  _ Okay? _ ” Stiles's eyes shine when he looks back at Derek, exasperated and thrilled. “I tell you I want to start courting, and all you have to say is okay?” 

Derek drifts closer, breathing stuttering when Stiles allows him to slide his palm down the side of his neck. “You still haven't said,” he teases despite himself. 

Stiles's hand inches up the back of Derek's hand until their fingers slit together. The tattoo of Stiles's pulse drums against the light press of Derek's fingers. 

Clearing his throat, Stiles squares his shoulders but doesn't move their hands away from each other “Derek Hale, alpha and alpha of the Hale pack,” his voice wavers with what sounds like amusement. He continues, “Would you do me the honor of accepting my request to court?” 

Derek has never courted, has never had more than fleeting and ill-advised relationships. He looks Stiles over, toe to crown, and reaches for Stiles's other hand. That one, he holds in his own and raises it to his lips. The bumps of his knuckles are soft against Derek's lips when he kisses them gently and says, “I accept.” He holds Stiles's gaze steadily, grinning so hard he almost can't see through the squint if his own eyes. 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles mutters quietly, eyes rounding in shock as if he really expected to be rejected. He pulls his hands free from Derek only to bring them up and hook his arms around Derek's neck loosely. Chest pressed to chest, Stiles confesses, “I thought you'd say no.”

Derek can imagine all the reasons Stiles may think Derek would object. He has ran through them all on his own plenty of times, they run through his brain every time he finds himself longing just a little too much. 

This, though— Stiles making him dinner and approaching the situation so formally— this has Derek wondering if this isn't a vivid dream after all. In case it isn't, Derek shakes his head. “Why would I? Stiles, I've thought about this thousands of times, never expecting to actually get to have the chance.”

He places his hands lightly on Stiles's waist; they fit perfectly, and Derek never wants to let him go, though he would if it made Stiles happy. 

Stiles's scent is thick like honey on the back of his tongue. Happiness exudes from every pore. He tightens his arms over Derek's shoulders. “I'm going to kiss you now.” 

Derek is about to tonelessly say,  _ “okay,”  _ just because he knows it will make Stiles laugh some more. However, his lips are quickly occupied by Stiles's in a searing kiss that he'll always remember as a promise. Fingers twisting over fabric, Derek clutches at Stiles and pours all his bottled up longing and wanting into Stiles, giving him his own promise and hope in return. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tom Petty's "Refugee".
> 
>  
> 
> If you wanna come hang out with me on Tumblr, I'm [here](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com).
> 
> Comment if you enjoyed this, please!


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